This morning, I was up early—5 AM. I sometimes wake at that hour, only to find the world still wrapped in darkness. At this time of year, the nights linger longer, and the daylight takes its time to arrive. I made myself a coffee, returned briefly to the warmth of bed, and then decided to drive north, back home before the city traffic began to stir.
Rain poured steadily as I stepped out the door. Within seconds, I was soaked. But once I was on the road, surrounded by the rhythm of the rain and the hum of early commuters, a strange comfort set in. I looked—really looked—at what surrounded me. Only a few weeks ago, the trees had been lush and green. Then came the fiery tones of fall—golds, oranges, reds. Now, only a scattering of bright yellow leaves clung to the dark wet branches, like delicate lace against the greys.
It struck me how much the palette had changed. Each season carries its own visual rhythm, and this one—muted and cool—has a quiet kind of poetry. I used to resist it. I used to dread the deep freeze, the months of permafrost when the world felt inhospitable, and even eyelashes froze upon stepping outside.
My mother never shared that dread. She was also an artist, and she always saw the beauty in the softened tones of winter—the greys, the whites, the subtle shadows. She used to say that the muted colors were beautiful. I couldn’t see it then. But I can now.
I think of her often at this time of year. I still have one of her paintings—a snowy Vermont field, with dark woods in the distance. When I look at it now, it doesn’t make me shiver. It makes me feel warm. It reminds me that beauty isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s quiet, waiting to be noticed.
As I anticipate another winter, I find myself more open to it. Seasons, like life and creativity, have cycles of growth and rest. The bright months are full of energy and expansion; the grey ones invite reflection. Each has its place, and each contributes something essential to the whole.
This winter, I’m determined to notice all the beauty.